Full Moon Investigations
by Billie the fourth sage
Summary: Just about everything you loved in Half Moon in an adult mishmash of violence, sex and suspense, gang activity and flashy PI action. Slash, adult themes. You've been warned. AU, mirroring events in the book. Don't like it? Don't read it.
1. prologue

**Prologue:**

Fletcher Moon, twenty-three, was an LPI, the youngest **licensed** as an investigator and quite experienced in maintaining strict boundaries between himself and the line which no self-respecting detective would cross if he/she was interested in keeping him/herself out of jail.

That is, up until about a week ago.

After only a week, seven days, one-hundred and sixty eight hours, Fletcher Moon registered in the state as a wanted criminal with ties to gang activity, possibly dangerous and to be subdued at any cost, under charges of arson and resisting arrest.

And as Fletcher feared, this was only the beginning.

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A/N: Only reviews will make this happen ;)

Characters belong to Eoin Colfer


	2. Where it began

Working somewhat blind here. Hope you don't mind the lack of detail; I'm writing this all off memory till I get a copy of the book at school.

Just enjoy for now 8D

Characters and original plot belong to Eoin Colfer.

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chapter 1.

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Fletcher Moon did not hate people. Facing scumbag after lovely scumbag each day only taught him to tolerate, to try to hear every one of their stories and decide, solely on intellect, whether or not it was the truth they were spouting desperately in the interrogation room.

Fletcher did not hate, but when it came to Herod Sharkey, he came pretty fucking close to that feeling.

Herod Sharkey was like a cockroach; no matter how many times you tried to crush it underfoot, you could never quite catch it as it scurried (or on the off chance, flew) into one of those tiny holes in your bathroom wall.

The redhead, currently brooding in a temporary holding cell while a phone call insured his release from said cell in about half an hour, was never subtle. He was as criminal as a twenty-year old mob family member could be, and his past offenses **paid tribute** to that fact.

Unfortunately, the youngest Sharkey had two things that kept him the lucky bugger roach in the bathroom wall: one was a very good lawyer, and the other—

"Jesus, Roddy, again?"

Fletcher was listening closely, trying to hear what he could from Herod's phone conversation, although he didn't have to strain much to hear that one exclamation over the line. It was, unmistakably, the voice of Herod Sharkey's older brother, Red.

Red was the alias the man had been known by ever since high school. Even then, Fletcher had known the Sharkey family much too up close and personal than he had preferred. While Fletcher had been the quiet, scarce boy in the corner, constantly observing and avoiding the spotlight at all costs, Red and his brother had been headline news every other week for some scandal or other, often involving the police, family business, or an unpleasant mixture of both.

It did not lessen as they graduated. Fletcher did not expect it to, and was not surprised who he busted in the first of many jobs he would take as a PI.

Oddly enough, none of the offenses Herod Sharkey committed against state law qualified to keep him IN jail, as much as Fletcher hoped he could find something that would be solid enough to take the thug off the streets for longer than a week.

"Hate to ask, but what was he charged for this time? Doesn't seem like it'll hold him for long." Sergeant Murt Hourihan said as Fletcher slumped into one of the waiting chairs. The older man handed the PI a cup of coffee before settling down beside the younger man.

"Minor theft. A neighbor called him out, but we couldn't find much at the scene. My bet is, he's already sold the damn things." Fletcher informed, taking a sip of coffee.

Murt raised an eyebrow. "Jewelry and some watches. Let's just say a year's worth of both our paychecks couldn't cover a pinky ring off that load." Was the PI's explanation.

Murt sighed. "Makes me miss the old days, when the kid was transparent as plastic wrap. Juvie didn't seem to want him after the fourth strike, though."

"Wasn't it the fourteenth?" Fletcher muttered as Herod walked through the door. "Hey, Moon. Guess you aren't doing as good a job as you think. Snooping, I mean." The Sharkey quipped.

"Can it, Sharkey. You know as well as I do that sooner or later, we're going to bust that operation of yours wide open."

"What operation?" Herod said, his attempt at looking innocent about as fake as presidential propaganda. "You really should can it, Roddy. Don't want the half-moon snoop getting anything out of you."

Fletcher cursed himself inwardly for not noticing the older Sharkey's entrance.

Red Sharkey had been off the police radar for some years now, but Fletcher had gotten an eyeful of him over this time. Often, if not always, Red was the one who came around the station to fetch his little brother, or pay his bail, or both. Sometimes, he even acted as Herod's lawyer, something which Fletcher always abhorred as Red snaked his way around every law and caught every loophole imaginable.

"Why should he worry? He hasn't **done anything**, right Red?" Fletcher said dryly. He caught the redhead's eyes for a moment. Cold, calculating, but unreflective of anything the man was thinking. Fletcher felt a shiver coming up the back of his spine, but fought it down.

"Go on ahead, Roddy." Red ordered.

"Yeah, yeah. Have fun while I'm gone, huh?" Herod said, smirking as he stepped out of the station a free man for the nth time.

Red approached Fletcher in such a way that made the PI regret ever opening his big mouth. Even if he was safe, where he was at the moment, Fletcher predicted that the later days would be significantly less secure for him.

The Sharkey stopped right in front of him, a little more than a foot taller than the detective and even more threatening that way. Murt looked apprehensive, but Fletcher didn't flinch. From unreadable, Red suddenly broke into a grin. "You and I both know what goes on with Roddy, half-moon, but it's your word against theirs." He said quietly.

"But you know him. And you know me." He said in a friendly manner, patting Fletcher's back like they'd been close for years. "Trouble as he might be, I'll do my best to keep him out of it."

Fletcher felt distinctly shaken even after the man had walked out of the station.

"Red Sharkey's the one you'd best watch out for, Fletcher. Said he'd gone straight, but I don't buy it for a second. He's a Sharkey, after all." Murt muttered, returning to his coffee.

"That's called profiling, Murt. Not something to be proud of." Fletcher said dryly.

"What, do you trust him?"

"Far as I can throw him." Fletcher said. "Not for a second."

* * *

It was a joke, at some point, but the name stuck. His sister, Hazel, had thought it up, back when she was wrestling with the idea of a young PI who had a romantic encounter with a woman tied to gang affairs.

She threw the script away and began working on another after about a month, the following winning her a few thousand bucks and a cozy little theater, where the play ran for about a year and a half.

Playwright's triumph, she called it.

In any case, "Full Moon Investigations" was printed on the front door of his office, often visited by clients who never left unsatisfied.

Until, of course, Fletcher met the worst case he would ever get in his career.

"You think Red Sharkey stole that locket?"

"Yes, but that's not the point! The point is what's IN the thing!"

"Locket."

"Yes, Half Moon. Locket."

Fletcher sighed, feeling very much irked that he even took on this client in the first place. April Devereux was someone he'd known in school once long ago, back when everyone found it both fun and easy to pick on him for being short. The problem with April, though, was that she was MUCH shorter than Fletcher had been, and three years younger.

Even now, Fletcher was at a sensible height, and April hadn't done much growing since high school, and yet being ten times richer seemed to have Devereux outweigh Moon where authority stood.

"So what exactly IS in the locket?" He asked, going through motions as he took notes.

"A lock of hair." April said dramatically.

Fletcher stared, one eyebrow raised for good measure.

"Don't you look at me like that! That hair belonged to-"

"All right, I don't need to know that." Fletcher interrupted. "All I need is a description of the locket. Assuming it houses the... hair, I can still track it for you. But once the... hair gets separated, there's really nothing I can do about that."

April seemed to ponder this for a moment, glaring very openly at the PI who did very well to ignore her.

"Okay. I've got a picture here. And collateral." She said, handing him two envelopes.

It didn't matter how infuriating the pink-clothed, blond haired woman could be; she paid well up front.

Fletcher, with no other case to work on, agreed to follow on April Devereux's terms.

And that, he decided much later, was what had begun it in the first place.

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....

* * *

Of course it won't be exactly like the original, but I still keep faithful to some bits ;D

YES, there are actually locks of hair that cost enough for people to hire PIs, it's not something that only happens to kids.

Reviews are the only reason I publish on this site :3 Sad but true.


	3. Rat

Thanks for all the lovely reviews, really 8D

Unfortunately, I'm working on low fuel for this story. It may go nowhere fast unless I have suggestions from the readers. I'm not as big a Half Moon fan as you guys are, and I don't even own the book. I browse through it at the school library.

So suggestions are appreciated.

Meantime, enjoy the chapter.

Characters and original story belong to Eoin Colfer.

* * *

All of Fletcher's pride seemed to be against him investigating such a flimsy lead, seeing as it would get him into so much worse than just the usual 'trouble' he got into in his job. Still, in his world, money talked, and the way April's money talked, his pride could take the back seat.

Of course, he wasn't stupid enough to get himself involved with Red Sharkey on something so inane, but looking up police records (courtesy of Murt) had revealed something that made the case slightly more interesting.

Only a week earlier, April had filed a report that a robbery had taken place in her estate. The elements and the break-in matched an MO that Fletcher knew too well.

"Herod."

Fletcher did his best never to set foot in Sharkey manor. Fortunately, Herod did the same, though to a lesser extent, as family seemed to be his one true source of bail money.

The Sharkey had a one or two hiding places the police were aware of, whereas Fletcher knew all twenty-four locations Herod hung out at normally. In some part of his office, he even had a chart listing what chances he had of finding Herod in those places.

He had it down to an art, keeping tabs on all his cases, but Herod was the only one who ever consistently got away.

Which was, in some respect, one of the reasons Fletcher used some of his smaller-time resources for information that the police could not provide.

As his childhood hero and investigative academy founder Bob Bernstein taught him, "Keep eyes everywhere." This was precisely the reason Fletcher dealt with Doyle.

Doyle, only a little younger than him, was once notorious in elementary school as "Doobie", identifiable by being the epitome of "snot-nosed" kids. They always used to say no one could recognize him if he didn't have mucous stringing out of his nostrils.

Kid jokes aside, this statement was almost entirely true, the only exceptions to it being a few of his family members and Fletcher himself.

Doyle was, if anyone were to look at him, completely unremarkable. No one could quite remember if he had brown hair or black, or the shape of his face, what kind of nose he had.

If you looked at him once, you would have absolutely no recollection of anything that might help identify him in a crowd. For most cases, staring at him for an hour would still have the same results after turning away for a minute.

To that effect, Doyle was the best informant Fletcher had when it came to dealings on the street.

Whenever Fletcher contacted Doyle, he always gave specifications as to what the other would wear during their meetings. Good as he was, no one without a full-fledged photographic memory could tell who Doyle was with one look or a hundred.

This time, Fletcher was meeting his informant in front of a newspaper stand a few blocks from the station, telling Doyle to wear one of the shirts Hazel had sold from her last big hit, "Who's Laughing Now?"

He found him easily enough. He was flipping through a magazine, slightly obvious in his mannerisms. Lucky he looked the way he did, otherwise he would have attracted suspicion, the way he was twitching.

"Doyle." Fletcher greeted.

"Oh, hey Fletcher! I haven't been waiting long, just reading this magazine, you know..."

"Sure, Doyle, sure. Listen, I need to talk to you about something, if you've noticed anything around the west side." Fletcher said quickly.

"Yeah, what of?"

"Sharkey activity. Herod Sharkey, to be precise, and Red if you managed." Fletcher said. The two of them walked into the nearest diner, a half-filled, moderately noisy place.

"Ah, yeah. Herod's been pretty busy, far as I saw. Nothing on Red, though." Doyle said.

The waitress approached and Doyle ordered a small meal. Fletcher took a coffee.

"Herod, then. What's he been up to?" Fletcher asked. Doyle adopted a pose he thought looked easy-going, leaning on the back of his seat, before answering. "Well, I've been around, and I noticed Herod being a little on edge. Here and there, he was talking to a bunch of shady-looking guys. Couldn't hear much, I just knew it had to do with money, and probably a lot since Herod usually doesn't bother keeping quiet when he hits jackpots. This must have been a big one."

"Huh. That does sound interesting. Did you notice where Herod's been frequenting recently?" Fletcher asked, just as another waitress brought their orders.

"Well, actually I—Hey, Mercedes, is that you?" Doyle said suddenly. Fletcher turned to their waitress, surprised to see their old school-mate. Mercedes Sharp looked embarrassed to have been recognized, but greeted the two awkwardly.

Fletcher found it strange for the woman to be working in such a place. Mercedes was pretty rich, or at least well off enough to be considered so. She had no real reason to be working in a diner. "What're you doing here?" Doyle asked.

Mercedes looked over her shoulder suspiciously before sighing. "Well, I just... Just wanted to work here." She said.

"What for? You don't need money." Fletcher said, no malice to his statement. It was a fact, and Mercedes showed it in the way she twitched. "I told you, I wanted to work here. Just don't go spreading it around." She said irritably.

"No problem. See you again soon?" Doyle said cheerfully.

Mercedes looked at him for a while. "Uh, yeah, sure."

Fletcher held back a laugh. She didn't recognize him. No one really did.

He finished his coffee, as Doyle gave fed him the information he needed.

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;)


	4. Sharkey luck, Moon luck

People still put this story on their alerts and favorites and I was way shocked to notice, but you people are the reason this is continuing.

Thank you for your continued support and I am SO SORRY, I'd originally abandoned this but I'm resuming production now.

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

"Herod Sharkey just got off charges from stealing from the Deveraux house a few weeks ago. Did you know about this?" Fletcher demanded.

Sergeant Murt Hourihan sighed, handing him a coffee from the dispenser. The stuff was crap, but it was strong enough that Fletcher could down it in one go and be on for days.

"Isn't it funny that you seem to spend more time here than actual squad detectives?" Murt said offhand as Fletcher went on with his rant.

"Three break-ins in the last five months and he got off all of them? How does that happen? We have a decent enough police force, don't we? I mean, for this size town."

"Oh, thanks," Murt muttered.

"The point is, Herod is not good at covering his tracks. Never has been. How is it that crimes that he's obviously committed are being dropped like hot potatoes?" Fletcher asked.

"Fletcher… you've lived here long enough… what do you think?"

Fletcher sighed, slumping into a chair he'd claimed as his own.

"Sharkey luck and money," he muttered.

"That's right."

"My job would be ten times easier if the law worked the way it should."

"Hey, hey, kid, the law works just fine," Murt chided. "The mob, unfortunately, works better. Speaking of that, you've really got to be careful. Crossing Herod Sharkey's bad enough, but you try the rest of the family and you can consider yourself fish food."

"Yup, got it—wait." Fletcher pulled out his phone. "It's Miss Deveraux."

"Which one?"

"One's a real sweetheart and one's a bitch barbie. Which one do you think is calling me?" Fletcher asked, flipping the cell open.

"With your luck?" Murt chuckled.

"Hello? Yes, Miss Deveraux—yes, yes, I'm following some leads. No, I don't believe Red Sharkey is related to this but his brother Herod—Ma'am, my job is to find your missing piece, not make any unnecessary confrontations. Yes, thank you," Fletcher said, his reddening face showing what his professional tone hid.

"She's lucky she pays like a frigging queen," he muttered with some choice expletives added at the end, stalking out of the door to do his job.

"You mean _you're_ lucky!" Murt called after, sounding spectacularly amused with the whole situation.

* * *

"You have the worst luck with women, don't you, half-moon?"

For the record, and for anyone who didn't witness it, Fletcher Moon most certainly did not splutter his over-caffeinated drink over the table that was meant for one.

All right, so it was meant for two, but up until a few seconds ago, only one person was sitting in it.

"Red," he attempted to say coolly, his voice a little raspy from the drink going down wrong.

"Really, a job from April Deveraux of all people?"

"How did you—what are you even doing here?"

"Well, I was supposed to come and threaten you… before I found out what you told April. And now I have to threaten you to keep you from doing anything stupid."

If he'd been drinking, Fletcher would have choked again. Instead, he kept a straight face and a deadpan tone as he said, "So you're here… to help me…"

"Well, I guess you didn't get those credentials of yours by being slow, so yes. Off the record, and tell anyone and I'm just as likely to end you, I'm trying to help you."

He leaned in closer, one hand on Fletcher's shoulder too keep him from pulling away. He was close enough for Fletcher to notice that he smelled like something woody while simultaneously smelling like smoke, like every other person in the bustling area of the city did.

"Listen, and listen good: Between you and me, I think Roddy deserves a year or two in hard time. He needs to learn a little discipline, and that'd teach him long enough that he'd get it in his head to stop getting his arse into these messes. The only reason he isn't there now is because my father—" Red paused, looking entirely uneasy. "My _family_ won't let one of their own get taken away. You know it, I know it… so half-moon, do yourself a favor and stay out of it. I'm warning you because you're smarter than this. You're better than this."

In all this, in the strength of Red's words, all Fletcher could think about was how it felt like he was missing something.

"You know me, Red," he said, and it was true enough, from their time in high school before. "You know I can't."

Red sighed, as if expecting the answer early on.

"You're a dead man, half-moon."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a warning. Watch yourself," Red said, nodding up at him before standing up to leave.

* * *

You're all awesome. I haven't read this book in about two, three years, so... correct me if I'm wrong about anything obvious!

~Billie


	5. May Deveraux Romances

Seriously guys, thank you for the support. I find this fun and interesting and let's hope this interest lasts long enough for me to finish this fic. :)

* * *

It didn't long for another incident to rise—a break-in at George Deveraux's home. The stolen items were thirty or so thousand pounds worth in one dress and a handful of jewelry that belonged to May Deveraux, George Deveraux's sweetheart of a daughter.

This was a police job, of course, but Fletcher was surprised to find himself called in, not by Murt or even George Deveraux (for whom he'd taken care of one or two cases, mostly in the social circles of the elite), but May herself, shyly asking for Fletcher's help.

May was the sweetest girl Fletcher had ever known, even with her crippling shyness, which she'd retained from elementary school all throughout high school. He'd even had a bit of a crush on her, which faded in the background of his working life. He hadn't talked to her in years, but seeing her again after all this time was jarring for the young PI, who had to double his focus to overcome May's ingénue beauty and shiny doe eyes.

Geez, no wonder Hazel insisted he get a love life. He was repressed.

"Hi Fletcher. Thanks for coming," she greeted when he arrived. The cops had already gotten the investigation under way, and the crime scene was tagged and photographed as he took his own look.

He noted the break in the glass, about the size of a fist in the middle and tapering out, right beside the door handle. He asked Rylander, one of the CSIs on hand, if they found any fibers on the glass. He'd let Fletcher take a look at the threaded strands bagged from the glass back door—cheap, dirtied white. Could have been acquired at any of the dozens of stores, could have been older than they could track. Virtually untraceable. Another angle, then.

Fletcher stood at the door and noted the height the perp must have been at to punch the glass in, the size of the hole and the cracking of the glass around the original break.

He got 'pretty damn tall' from his observations, measuring at a little below 7 feet.

He informed the inspector as a freebie before sitting down with May, who would only talk to him, since he was the only one she knew there.

"I'm sorry," Fletcher said first of all. "This must be hard on you."

"Oh, no. I mean, yes, but… I'm sorry. I'm troubling everyone," she stuttered.

"You house just got broken into, May," Fletcher soothed. "This is the police's job. Now tell me what happened, slowly, as much as you can remember from when you found the room like this."

"Mhm. Um, this is the room I use sometimes. It faces the fields, which are blocked off from around, so it's safe. I mean, it was supposed to be safe. I had some jewelry in here, in the closet. And, um, a dress I use for special occasions."

She paused, taking a breath before saying, very quickly, "I don't really mind. The dress was old, I didn't like it, and some of that jewelry too. The one I'm worried about is my mother's brooch. It's one of a kind, and it's very important to our family."

"All right. May, don't worry, I may know how to find your mother's brooch. Just give a description of that and all the other jewelry—and the dress—to the officers."

May nodded.

"Now, tell me about the circumstances," Fletcher said slowly. "What were you doing the night before?"

May blushed lightly, like she'd done something wrong. Fletcher took note.

"Um… I was entertaining a guest. Dad was out," she said, "and we were in the living room."

"Who's this guest?" Fletcher asked.

May looked flustered, looking around. When her eyes landed on her Dad across the room, she leaned close to Fletcher and said quietly, "Red Sharkey."

Fletcher dropped his pad.

"What?"

"Red Sharkey. We were in high school—"

"I know," Fletcher said quickly.

"He's your friend," May stated, not so much a question as something she thought was a truth.

"No," Fletcher said. "Not really."

"But in high school—"

"Well," Fletcher amended, "I guess we were friendly then. We solved cases together, the little ones that earned us money. But that was high school. I didn't see him years after that. Nowadays, I only see him when he bails Herod out at the precinct."

May smiled a little.

"He helped us with our horses, once. He likes them. The vet was out of town, and he was able to calm Hemingway down for the next two days until the doctor could take a look. Dr. Grayson said he'd done a great job, and I told him he could come see Hemingway and the other horses whenever he liked."

Fletcher was surprised—not so much at the horse thing (he remembered that Red's favorite book in high school had been Black Beauty—he was surprised he'd forgotten), but that Red Sharkey was in and out of the Deveraux house with April living near and, for that matter, George Deveraux living in the very place. May was a trusting person, and Fletcher couldn't fault her for it. Red was… well, it wasn't fair to judge him by his family's name. He was a decent guy when it came right down to it, but just because Fletcher and May were able to accept that didn't mean George Deveraux would.

"Your father…"

May looked ashamed.

"Dad goes out of town a few times every other month. I tell Red when he's gone so he can come over. We've talked. He's talked about you too," she said, her tone suddenly cheerful.

"He does?" Fletcher asked, bewildered.

May's eyes widened. "I mean, um…. He told me you were a private detective who helped the police. That's why I called you."

"Oh, yeah." Fletcher paused. "What else has he said about me?" he questioned.

"Nothing," May squeaked. "Nothing important."

Fletcher knew when people were lying to him, and May wasn't exactly the queen of poker faces.

"Um, May… I'm sorry for asking, I know this might be a personal matter, but… were you having… ahem… relations with Red?" he asked slowly.

"Relations?" May asked bewilderedly.

"Sexual relations," Fletcher said even more quietly. May's eyes widened and a blush streaked across her face.

"Oh, no! Of course not, I wouldn't."

"There's no shame in it," Fletcher said. "I won't be spreading it around if you were."

"I know, but… no, it's silly. Red and I are just friends, I promise. You don't need to worry, Fletcher."

"Worry?" Fletcher murmured quizzically.

"Well, with Red… I mean… never mind," May stuttered. Fletcher felt a bit sorry for her, and decided to stop trying to get anything more out of her if it was just going to upset her.

"Did he in any way… suggest you invite him around?" Fletcher asked more carefully.

"No, I invited him. I don't think he would have accepted if it wasn't for Hemingway, and the sweet colt that was just born a few weeks ago. He loves the horses, and it would be too cruel to not give him a reason to stay for them."

"That's… kind of you," Fletcher said, uncertain what to do with this information. It did tell him that it wasn't Red's idea to keep coming back to the manor, but that didn't assure his innocence. Still, Fletcher thought he was pretty good at reading people and Red didn't seem like the type of man who would do petty theft, especially counting the items stolen.

His family members, on the other hand…

"Thank you for your help, May. It's been a pleasure seeing you again," he said.

"I'm glad to help! And Fletcher," she called when Fletcher stood to leave, "You can come around too, if you like. I enjoy the company of old friends, and I'd like to catch up."

Fletcher accepted her invitation with a grain of salt, not because of May, since she was as earnest as could be, but because of her family.

He was, after all, a decent judge of character, and it didn't take a genius or a detective to figure that April probably wasn't in any way pleasant to be around.

For that alone, he both wanted to come around and to avoid the manor like a plague.

"Moon," he said when he answered his cell.

_"Fletcher!"_ Doyle's voice greeted him over the line, sounding agitated.

"Doyle, what is it?"

_"Got a hit on Herod Sharkey's activity. He's been hustling pool for the past few hours, bragging about having something valuable. Nothing substantial, but he says he's bringing it out tonight."_

"Text me the address," Fletcher bade.

Finally, things were looking up.

* * *

A/N: I thought the horse bit would be apt. Reviews are my sweet, sweet hay.


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